


Electric Baptisms

by osunism



Series: Ice Shielded By Flame [9]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Generational Trauma, Magical Application, Mother-Daughter Relationship, The Fade, Trauma, magical theory
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 06:51:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,576
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9808082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/osunism/pseuds/osunism
Summary: "No matter her deficiency in magic, her hope always lay within you, the only mage born of her loins."





	

**Author's Note:**

> I was watching the _Lemonade_ film by Beyoncé and got into my sad ass Black girl feelings. I just really love mother-daughter relationships that are complex, and family relationships in general. I also like to showcase how Hadiza interacts and relates to her family. This is post- _Maledictus_ epilogue, hence why it's going in this particular series.

_Do you remember being born?_

_Are you thankful for the hips that cracked?_

_The deep velvet of your mother and her mother and her mother?_

_There is a curse that will be broken._

–Warsan Shire, _Lemonade (2016)_

 

She only dreams of her mother when she is within the hallowed halls of her ancient House.

No other place can hold the ghost of Maribasse but Rivain, where she was molded and sculpted from its rich and fertile earth, infused with the fire and magic and blood of a powerful matriarchy. Hadiza knows this, because the power when she crosses Rivaini borders is palpable. Magic flavors the air like a pungent spice, stinging her nostrils, electrifying her tongue with spells no mortal throat can utter. Here, in this land where her blood runs truest, magic has no limits.

 _Solas would have loved this place_. Hadiza thinks wryly as she watches her aunt walk her through another spell.

 _Motsi Simintin_ , or what others call dance magic, is done purely with the body through complex movements of the hands and feet. The trick of it is that the mage must focus on syncopation of the spell within their mind and match the foot and hand movements in order to cast it properly. A misstep, or the flick of a wrist at the wrong moment can cause a misfire or worse, hurt the mage themselves.

Very few in Rivain have mastered this art, and those who have are afforded an honor and respect usually due to seers. Ironically, most who master the _Motsi Simintin_ are seers themselves.

Hadiza has struck herself with lightning five times in her latest attempt to bring absolute control to the storm within her. Djeneba is encouraging enough, but it is frustrating. As good a dancer as she is, Hadiza has spent too much time mired in the south’s Circle politics and curriculum. To break the barrier and access this magic, she must renounce and release what she has been taught are acceptable ways to learn.

A memory rises up like a miasmic eidolon, unbidden, unwelcome, interrupting the rhythm of her steps. The lightning arcs away from her control, strikes a nearby rod designed for such a purpose, and fires back at Hadiza, striking her in the shoulder and sending her sprawling.

There, she lays, and sees her mother.

“You are so much like me,” Maribasse says as Hadiza sits up, grunting and rolling her stricken shoulder. The pain is gone and Hadiza takes in a weary breath to sigh. Her mother is perched on a ruined column, clad in the white dress Hadiza remembered seeing in her wardrobe ages ago. Her hair is loose, a cloud of silver and black curls framing her face. Hadiza realizes that she is in the Fade, and a sense of foreboding overtakes her momentarily before she quells it.

“Why do you deny your gift?” Maribasse asks her, sliding down to walk toward her. Hadiza readies a spell, giving the woman pause.

“Show me your face.” Hadiza orders, “Or I will make you.”

“Hadiza,” Maribasse chides, “it’s me…or rather…a memory of me. You brought me here.”

Hadiza hesitates, knows that hesitation can kill her if she does so again. She steels her resolve.

“My mother is dead,” she says, speaking the words she has not been able to speak in so long. Somehow, saying it makes it true, makes it stick. Her mother is dead and never coming back. There will be no reconciliation for either of them.

“I forgive you, you know.” Maribasse says slowly. “Or rather, she did, before the end.” She trails her stolen fingertips along the curve of her hip.

“What do you want from me?” Hadiza demands, ignoring the feel of the hot knife of guilt severing her heartstrings.

“I should be asking you the same,” Maribasse says, stepping closer. “You summoned me here.”

“I did no such thing.” Hadiza protests. She blinks. “I was casting. Or trying to. My spell rebounded and struck me.”

Maribasse tilts her head, saying nothing, but there is a look of profound sorrow on her face that Hadiza cannot bear. Her mother is dead. Her mother is _dead_. Her mother is **dead**.

“I called out to you,” Hadiza says softly, “to my mother…because of the pain.”

Maribasse nods gravely.

“And so I am here.”

“But you are not my mother.” Hadiza’s hands crackle with power. “And I’ll not let you feed from my grief.”

Maribasse looks startled. “I would not do that to you, my dear.” She says, sounding so genuine Hadiza almost believes it is her mother, come to soothe her hurts and reassure her that all is well.

“You are not a demon, then.” Hadiza says warily. “A spirit of what? Compassion?”

Maribasse shakes her head.

“It’s more complicated than that, Hadiza.” She reaches out. “Take my hand, I want to show you something.”

Hadiza does not move. Another memory rises up, unbidden; seven eyes crinkle in the darkness, and a fanged mouth opens in a soundless roar. A pair of spiraling horns are silhouetted against a sickly green sky, and clawed hands cup Hadiza’s face in the mockery of a caress before drawing blood.

Hadiza sits up with a gasp, slapping her hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. When she looks around, she is in her room, and a storm is brewing, the wind ruffling the silk curtain which billows over the room like a great, ghostly bird of prey. She looks out of the lattice window, sees the flash of lightning in cloud cover, which illuminates the false limb on her bedside table.

The storm gathers strength, and she can hear shutters banging in the halls as servants rush to secure them. When the rain hits, it is a rush, as if the very sky is casting its own spell against the world. Hadiza runs her hands over her face, and is relieved when she feels no wounds, relieved when she feels no deformities indicating possession.

“Hadiza?” It is Djeneba’s voice, resonant and soft, standing in the doorway looking like some dream-spun figment. She is clad in all white, and the cowrie shells woven into her locks look like dragon scales. She holds a single dish in which floats a single flame of veilfire, casting her in the eerie, verdant light of it. When Hadiza blinks it is an ordinary flame and she shakes her head.

“It was a powerful spell that cast you into the Fade,” Djeneba says, coming to sit on the bed beside her. Hadiza tries not to flinch when her aunt reaches to smooth her sweat-dampened hair from her temple.

“It only happens sometimes.” Hadiza says, the weariness in her voice raw and rough-edged. Djeneba nods.

“It took some time for me to find you and pull you out. It is good that you were on alert. There is some residual magic within your wound from his mark upon you.”

His mark. She means Solas.

Hadiza looks down at the stump of her elbow. Bits of the Anchor were left behind in the process of removing it. Solas had said it would not kill her immediately, but it _would_ kill her, just a lot slower than had she kept the full power. Hadiza wants to laugh to keep from crying; she does neither. Like Samson, her lifespan is foreshortened by magic.

“You saw your mother.” Djeneba says. Hadiza looks up sharply.

“No, I saw a spirit wearing her face.” She looks away. “I only dream of her when I am here.”

“It is not surprising,” Djeneba tells her, “no matter how far Maribasse ran, her heart–her blood–was always tethered to Rivain. No matter how many times she kneeled before Andraste, her faith was always of the Old Ways. No matter her deficiency in magic, her hope always lay within you, the only mage born of her loins.”

Hadiza lets out a sound of defeat.

“I didn’t ask for this.” She says, “Any of it. I just wanted to…” She rubs at the stump of her arm irritably.

“What do I do?” She asks after a time, her voice small. Djeneba cups the flame in her palm as if she is cupping cool spring water. It goes completely still in her hand despite the breeze. It is calm, like a soothed child, and casually, she deposits the flame back into the small dish of jasmine oil. It dances happily, as if relieved to have fuel for its lifespan.

“Talk to the spirit,” Djeneba says, “it will not harm you. When your mother died, it may be she left some memories behind in the Fade during her passing.”

“How?” Hadiza asks. “She was not a mage.”

“No,” Djeneba says, “she was not. But that does not mean she could not touch magic, or connect with those who could.”

Hadiza looks down at her hand.

“Alright,” she says, “I’ll give it a go, then. This time, I want to ease into the Fade. No more crash landings.”

Djeneba smiles, reaches to cup Hadiza’s cheek.

“I will teach you.”

_Grandmother, the alchemist, you spun gold out of this hard life, conjured beauty from the things left behind._

_Found healing where it did not live. Discovered the antidote in your own kit._

_Broke the curse with your own two hands._

_You passed these instructions down to your daughter who then passed it down to her daughter._

–Warsan Shire, _Lemonade (2016)_


End file.
